


Money Power Glory

by MaryWisdom



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Crime fiction about terrible people, F/M, Fred Squared vs. Murder Husbands, Jack Crawford has no clue, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, dark!Will, takes off before the last 5 minutes of Naka-Choko
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-15
Updated: 2015-03-16
Packaged: 2018-03-18 01:12:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3550550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaryWisdom/pseuds/MaryWisdom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Will Graham tries to murder Freddie Lounds in his barn, she barely manages to escape with her life. But having cried wolf once too often, she finds herself incapable of warning the world of the murderous duo on whose menu she now stands. Out of other options, Freddie finds an unlikely ally in Dr Frederick Chilton, the man everyone believes to be the Chesapeake Ripper, and together they pursue one goal: take down Hannibal Lecter and Will Graham (and then sell the biggest story of the century).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. When the fires have surrounded you

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Hannibal Big Bang, which turned into the Hannibal Spring Fling 2015.

There were small shards of the glass from the car window caught in her hair. Freddie Lounds’ head hurt, and the cold air burned inside her lungs while she screamed and kicked as Will Graham dragged her back to his barn. He was so much stronger than he looked. To make matters worse, he had bumped her head into the shelf earlier, and as a result Freddie was feeling more than just a bit dizzy and had to regain her sense of direction almost every time Will took a step.

She saw the frame of the barn door from the corner of her eye and managed to duck her head at the last moment before she could hit it. _Oh god, not back in the barn!_ She considered biting Will, but she could not move her head close enough to his arm and his jacket looked too thick for her teeth to bother him anyway.

Her kicking and screaming grew more frantic when she realized Will was taking her to his wooden workbench with the tools. He lifted her up almost effortlessly. She twisted and turned in his arms until one of her kicks hit him in the back of his knee and he fell. However, Freddie fell with him. In her panic she was not prepared for the floor hitting her at high speed, and even less for the edge of the workbench halfway through her fall that knocked her in the back of the head. Her world turned black at the corners.

Stars were dancing in front of her eyes. Freddie was vaguely aware of something striking her side hard, and then she was picked up again and thrown onto a hard surface. For some reason she smelled metal, but she was not sure if it was Will's tools, a hallucination from her hurt head, or if she was actually bleeding. She was turned over onto her stomach and her jacket was violently removed, ripping the zipper apart and sending the belt buckle flying. Will did not pull it off completely though, but left it hanging from the side of the workbench with her left arm still inside the sleeve.

Freddie felt the sweat on her skin turn cold, but she was still fighting the blackness back to the edge of her vision. A whimper escaped her mouth.

 _You're hurt_ , the dizzy part of her mind whispered. _Let's close our eyes... Just for a moment..._

Her head pounded like a jackhammer and she was slightly tempted to give in and go unconscious, to rest, just for a second until the world stopped spinning around her...

Two strong hands slid down the sides of her back. "You've been terribly rude, Ms. Lounds," Will Graham hissed, his voice muffled from the swollen nose and watering eyes Freddie’s pepper-spray had caused, “What's to be done about that?” And with a quick violent motion he pushed her pullover up to her shoulder blades, exposing her naked skin to the freezing air.

A sudden surge of adrenalin rushed through Freddie and she saw clear again, any thought of giving in to the darkness instantly replaced by her will to survive. Her eyes flew open and her body tensed, but before she could jump up, Will pressed her down on his workbench. Freddie gasped for air, wincing at the pain he was causing her. She felt him run two fingers over the soft flesh on her lower back, and suddenly there was something different. Something cold and metallic. And sharp.

"What's... to be done... about that..." Will whispered, and with the final word he pierced her flesh with the tip of the knife. Freddie screamed in agony as he cut deep along her back.

She heard his breath shake and felt the knife quiver, but she was not sure whether that was from repulsion or delight. But when she realized through the pain and the horrifying sensation of warm blood running down her back that Will's grip on her had involuntarily eased, Freddie took her chance and kicked her heeled boot hard in the direction she guessed his groin would be.

She guessed correctly.

The knife clattered on the freezer next to her loudly and Will Graham made an agonized wheeze, going down to his knees. Freddie kicked again, this time hitting his shoulder, and brought herself into an upright position. The wound on her back burned and she quickly pulled her pullover down, hoping it would keep the bleeding low. She did not think long and jumped on her feet, still fueled by the adrenalin, and she ran, out the door and to her Jeep, leaving Will Graham rolling in pain on the ground in his barn.

Freddie stumbled when she frantically tried to pull her jacket back on without irritating the cut on her lower back too much and getting the car door open at the same time, but she did not fall. With one swift move she fished her car keys from the floor. This time she pushed them into the ignition at the first try. They almost broke when she turned them roughly and her car sprang to life. Freddie floored the pedal. The tires spun in the snow as she raced the car around and down the way she had come, away from Will Graham’s home.

She did not look back and did not stop or slow down until she reached the hospital in Washington D.C.

***

When Jack Crawford arrived at the hospital, Freddie was lying on a gurney, flat on her stomach with her bloodied pullover clutched between her hands. The nurse had tried to take it away, but Freddie had refused to give it up. The stench of the disinfectant in the air failed to cover up the coppery smell that seemed to be all over her.

Freddie did not like hospitals particularly, but in her chosen profession it was often not possible to avoid them if one wanted to get the big scoop. People on drugs were more likely to give interviews (who cared if they were not 100% reliable?), and dramatic hospital-pictures sold better. She had even made it her business to find scarcely guarded ways in and out of several hospitals across the states, including John Hopkins in Baltimore and George Washington University Hospital in D.C., where she was now. Out of habit she had parked her car a few streets away, irritated at the broken window. She could only hope that the car would still be there when she returned.

She could feel the doctor move away from her, exiting the room after a buzz from his pager, and she shifted marginally into a position that was more comfortable. They had numbed the skin around the cut for stitching it up. Cleaning the wound had hurt; Freddie had not seen it, but she was aware that it was long, though not deep enough to cause serious injury – six and a half inches by less than a half inch, not perfectly clean cut. She had not counted the stitches, but there had been a bunch. Patches of gauze were being fixed with adhesive strips to cover the cut, while Freddie was still trying to wrap her head around the events in Wolf Trap, which proved to be a harder task than it seemed, since the doctor had also diagnosed her with a mild concussion. _Mild, my ass!_ she thought bitterly. Her head hurt and pounded like it was about to burst.

At the sound of the door opening Freddie blinked and tried to turn her head without moving her body too much. She spotted the doctor who had examined her for serious injuries returning and Jack Crawford, who turned to stand stiffly in a corner, his face stony. For a split-second Freddie felt sorry for the man. After the relief that Will Graham was not the Copycat-Killer, he now had to face the truth that his friend and prize-pony was something far worse. Not to mention what a horror it had to be that Dr. Hannibal Lecter was most likely responsible for murders that his division of the FBI had already arrested somebody else for. She wondered if it was better to ask Crawford for an interview right away, or wait until he was fired and needed the money.

“Okay, could you please sit up now?” the nurse said, placing a cold hand on Freddie’s shoulder to help her if necessary. Slowly, Freddie moved into a sitting position, grimacing at the numb tickling in her back. Her hand twitched towards the bandaged wound, curious, but the nurse nudged it away. Still holding eye contact with Jack, Freddie raised both arms and folded them over her chest while the nurse was wrapping bandages around her torso.

“Have you arrested them yet?” Freddie finally asked, bursting with questions and not willing to wait until the nurse was finished. Before she had even revealed her injury, storming into the ER bloodied and battered as she was, she had expressly told the nurse on duty to call Jack Crawford at the FBI and let him know that his Special Agent had attacked her.

“Them?” Jack raised his eyebrows.

Freddie’s eyes darted left and right to the doctor, who had stitched her up, and the nurse, who was writing something down in her file. She was not going to say any names, not with a story this huge and high-profile. She was definitely not going to take any risks, not after all the work she had put into it and even ending up in hospital for it. “You know exactly who I’m talking about, Jack,” she said instead.

Crawford flashed his FBI-badge at the two medics. “Please leave us alone for a moment.” The doctor frowned, shooting Freddie a glance. She realized she had nothing to put on, since her pullover was undoubtedly going to be collected as evidence. Not that she was squeamish over talking to Jack Crawford in her bra, but it was getting a little chilly.

“She’ll need some painkillers and antibiotics,” the nurse tried to argue, but Jack nodded towards the door.

“Later. This is important.”

The nurse shrugged and followed the doctor outside. The door closed behind them. Freddie looked at Jack expectantly, putting her arms down at either side of her hips and dangling her legs from the side of the gurney. She smiled. Jack’s face was unchanged.

“Tell me what happened, Freddie,” he finally said.

“Oh, did no one tell you?” Freddie frowned, her lips twitching into a smile nonetheless. If Jack Crawford could play dumb, she could play startled. “Will Graham attacked me with a hunting knife, right after I found human remains in his freezer. I would show you the cut, but the nurse did such a nice job with the bandages – I don’t want to ruin that. You’ll have to take my word that it’s there.” She watched hungrily for his reaction. There was none, except for a humorless huff at her last comment.

“Your word?” Jack said. Freddie smirked at him triumphantly, well aware how little he still thought of her brand of journalism. But despite her low prestige, _she_ had solved the Chesapeake Ripper case when the FBI had not been able to for almost half a decade. She had figured it all out even though the answer had been right in front of Jack Crawford’s broad nose the whole time.

“Human remains, Jack!” Freddie prompted when the agent stayed silent for too long. “In a freezer. Perfectly sized to fit into a frying pan too! I am telling you, Jack, Will and Dr. Lecter were going to serve them at their next dinner party! Hannibal Lecter is the Chesapeake Ripper!”

“Dr. Lecter. The Chesapeake Ripper,” Jack repeated calmly. Then, looking at her as if he was pitying her for telling an old joke everybody already knew, “I haven’t heard that one in a while. Although the part about Will Graham is new.”

Freddie blinked, sure she had misheard. When a look at Jack’s face told her she had heard correctly, she thought he was messing with her; a little revenge for all the times she had messed with his investigations. But the longer she stared at him, the more she felt the hair on her neck stand up at his crossed arms and the angry twitching in his right eye that she only just noticed. Freddie straightened up. Something was not right at all.

“Will and Hannibal are killing together, Jack,” she argued, her smile faltering. “The body you found at the museum, Randall Tier? He was one of Dr. Lecter’s patients! And wasn’t there a theory about Tier himself killing people with a set of self-made prosthetic beast-teeth? Well, I found them! I found them in Will Graham’s barn, Jack!”

“Can you prove it?” Jack asked, and his tone made it clear he would only accept hard evidence, if anything at all. Freddie cursed Leonard Brauer for bringing up her six libel law suits during Will’s trial – though Jack could probably have found out about those without the lawyer. Until then Crawford’s biggest issue with Freddie had probably been her habit of contaminating crime scenes and writing a bit too ‘openly’ about Will Graham’s state of mind – obviously, her articles about him had not been too far off, had they?

Freddie looked around the room for her handbag, only to feel her heart sink when she realized she had dropped it in Will’s barn in favor of being able to properly hold her gun. Her camera had been inside.

Her voice broke a little as she admitted, “I-I don’t have any proof with me.” She took a deep breath to calm herself. “I was forced to leave it at the barn. But it’s all there, believe me, Jack---“

But Jack cut her off. “You don’t have any evidence. You show up at a hospital, asking for me and claiming that the man you have a history of slandering has attacked you. And you call me and leave me a message full of your screams.” Freddie fought to keep herself from shrinking in on herself as he got louder with each word. “You know who else gave me a call? Will Graham! He said he saw you snooping around his property and that you broke into his barn. He also said he saw you make a call, only to scream at the phone. I sent agents there to investigate as soon as he hung up. There was nothing in his barn or his freezer except fish!”

Freddie could not believe what she was hearing. She stared at Jack incredulously. “And the wound?! I have a seven inch long cut on my back, Agent Crawford! Are you suggesting I mutilated myself just to frame Will Graham?!”

“The doctor says it’s possible. Your cut showed signs of hesitation. I don’t think you’re above using self-mutilation to sell a story.”

It could not have felt much differently if Jack had slapped Freddie across the face. She wanted to laugh at how surreal this was, but the sound would not come out of her mouth. Instead she found herself blinking a few times, hoping she was having a nightmare or hallucinating from her concussion. When the scene in front of her did not change, she took a deep breath. It was a lot shakier than she would have liked to admit.

“Please, Jack,” she begged, “you have to believe me! Will Graham is playing you! I swear to all that’s holy, I am telling the truth!”

Jack eyed her with disgust. “Nothing is holy to you, Freddie. And I will take Will Graham’s word over yours any day of the year.”

Freddie tried to keep her face straight, but could not stop her lips from quivering, while she let the feeling sink in that the FBI was not going to have Will arrested for attacking her. Suddenly she wished she had a shirt to cover herself up.

Will would remain free.

So would Hannibal.

And she knew too much.

Panic crept up on her. She clenched her teeth. “I’m going to publish this, Agent Crawford,” she hissed, her eyes as hard as she could get them. “I’m going to spread it. Everyone will know.”

“Do it and you will face a lawsuit you will never recover from,” Jack replied venomously. “As soon as your article goes up this time, I’m going to have you arrested. I’ll have you put away for obstruction of justice.”

Freddie pressed her lips together. She knew Crawford was not making an empty threat this time. She held his gaze while trying to ignore the burning mix of anger, desperation, and fear in her chest. But she did not know what else to say.

Jack Crawford was indifferent to her terror. “I never want to see you at one of my crime scenes again,” he finally said before opening the door and leaving Freddie alone in the room.

She felt cold.

This was a disaster. How could Freddie ever feel safe again if she had to spend the rest of her life in fear that Will Graham or Hannibal Lecter might kill her (at that thought she quickly glanced around the room – brilliant, the paranoia was already kicking in). Even more importantly, how was she going to sell a book about a serial killer when the FBI was putting her on a leash?!

Deciding to rethink her priorities at a later point, Freddie untangled her blood-soaked pullover and put it back on. Jack Crawford was obviously not going to use it as evidence, so she figured she might as well wear it until she got the chance to change. The blood was barely noticeable if she pulled her winter jacket a little further down.

As soon as the nurse had returned, finished the paperwork and given her prescriptions for painkillers and antibiotics, Freddie jumped down from the gurney and exited the room. She did not want to spend more time than necessary at the hospital, and the sooner she got back to her windowless car the better. Everything felt a little numb. She made her way down the hallway, past curtained-off beds and people smelling of alcohol trying to explain to nurses why they had a shot-glass shoved up their anus.

She only stopped to drink from the water-cooler near the nurses’ station because, even though she had not lost a lot of blood and her head was not all that hurt, she still felt a little dizzy. She leaned against the wall, sipping from her paper cup, wondering what she should do. Everything around her was just on the edge of becoming hectic. Apparently a pipe had burst by the main entrance, and so literally everybody had to get in through the emergency room entrance. A woman with a nasty cut on her forehead was telling the nurse on duty how she had fallen off a unicycle. A family of ten people was studying the map for directions to the nursery. A pale teen was sitting with a bloody cloth wrapped around his hand, while another with spiky green hair was apparently filling out paperwork for him, and a third one with a nose ring and a leather jacket was nervously mumbling under his breath, clutching a clear plastic bag filled with ice and what seemed to be half a finger. The one with the pen was trying to be funny and asked the pale one if he was pregnant. The other one shook his head weakly in reply.

Another nurse, this one younger and thinner than the one who had just handed the woman with the unicycle a clipboard, strode past Freddie to the desk and touched the older nurse lightly on the shoulder. “I owe you five bucks,” she sighed, “the guy did say he sat on it.”

“Told you,” the older nurse chuckled, “those people never come up with anything original. They all _sit_ on stuff.”

“Why can’t they just admit they got bored and wanted to try something kinky for jerking off?” They both giggled like schoolgirls while the younger one picked up several patient files and wanted to stack them evenly, but stopped mid-motion when her eyes fell on the topmost.

“What’s this still doing here? Didn’t I just see that FBI-guy leave?” she asked with a frown.

The older nurse bent her head to look at the file in question. “Well, _he_ is still here. Transport is scheduled for later this evening. FBI was here for someone else; some girl with a cut ordered Anya to call them. Probably one of those conspiracy-nuts…”

“I can’t wait to get him out of here,” the younger one shuddered.

“Gives you the creeps, huh?” the older one asked with a side-glance at her colleague.

“Well, he killed Dr. Caldwell and all those other people. Makes you question God’s great plan when someone like him survives something like _that_.”

“Psh, never think like that, honey! He’ll rot in hell for what he did.” The younger nurse rolled her eyes, at which the older one raised her meaty finger to emphasize her point. “No, listen to me: the Chesapeake Ripper will pay for his crimes.”

“Don’t use that name,” the younger nurse replied with a frown. “It’s like a title. He is a killer, a criminal. He shouldn’t have a title.”

Over by the wall, Freddie Lounds’ heart missed a beat. She felt the skin behind her ears flush with excitement at the conversation she had just overheard. Her eyes darted to the patient file the nurse had put back on the stack on the counter, while she tried to look as invisible as possible.

For the past six weeks she had been bombarding the FBI with calls and emails, had stalked agents and doctors, anyone really who would reveal _his_ location to her for small favors and bribes. In the end she would have been content with just talking to anyone who had been in the building during the arrest and what had happened subsequently; an agent, a trainee, a cleaning lady, _anyone_. But for once the FBI had kept an airtight lock on their information, and Freddie was probably facing a couple more restraining orders on top of not having found out a single detail about what had gone down at the BSU-headquarters that day. She could, however, connect the dots well enough to know that this most likely meant somebody at the FBI had screwed up big time.

Freddie felt a familiar itch creep up on her. She needed to find out what had happened to him, not only for her story, but also because right now it could help her survive. The more she thought about it, the clearer it became that she needed to talk to him. And for that, she would need to distract the nurses somehow and steal a closer look at that file to find out where he was located.

And for the first time today, luck was on her side because at that very moment, the teen holding the plastic bag with the severed fingertip in it fainted and fell face-first to the floor.

As soon as the nurses saw what was happening they were both over by the boy, checking for a pulse and shoving away the green-haired boy, who had nothing better to do than yell at and violently shake his collapsed friend, while the one clutching the rag around his hand was weakly trying to shove the ice and the fingertip that had spilled all over the linoleum tiles back into the plastic bag.

Freddie, who had trained herself to assess a situation (and possibly take pictures) before rushing to anyone’s help, did not waste any time and took her chance now that nobody was paying attention to her or the files on the counter. She flipped the top file open and took a look at the name just to make sure she had the right one. A small smile spread across her face.

**Chilton, Frederick E.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shoutout to my wonderful beta stalksandmonocles on tumblr :D Thank you so much!
> 
> Chapter title from the song Blood On My Name by The Brothers Bright.


	2. I found you in pieces, you'd been torn apart

The fly that had somehow slipped into the room was circling the cabinet near the bathroom for the fiftieth time. If he stretched his arm as far as he could and ignored the strain the handcuffs put on his wrist, he could just reach the string keeping the shades in place and shut out the late afternoon sun completely. The last time he had been handcuffed to a bed had been in college.

He had trouble keeping his thoughts in line. Part of it was due to the drugs – painkillers and sedatives they still kept administering to him – and part of it was definitely from being in the same hospital room for over a month. He had gone stir-crazy weeks ago.

There were 53.782 holes in the ceiling. He had counted it three times, from different corners. The room was so blank – not much color, except for the pale puke-green of the walls, and no furniture that was not there for practical reasons. His family had not sent one single card. But could he blame them? Frederick doubted one could buy a _We know you didn’t do it_ -card at the supermarket, and _Get well soon_ just would not suffice.

He had spent one week in an induced coma and another one in intensive care. Three days ago they had unwired his jaw. Speaking was painful and chewing food still almost impossible. There was nerve damage in his facial muscles, which might or might not be permanent at this point, making his words slightly slurred and smiles crooked (not that he had reason to smile).

Two weeks after he had woken up the last stitches in his cheek had been removed. A gauze bandage had been put on the scar for protection. The doctors had planned to take it off without replacement two days later. He had not let them.

Everything was numb. Everything hurt. His gaze followed the fly around the room lazily. He was sitting in the only chair around, left hand loosely cupped around his chin, one finger resting on his chapped lips; right hand cuffed to the metal bed frame.

Today they would at last be taking him out of the hospital. He knew because he was finally rid of the hospital gown, and he was looking forward to not smelling antiseptic on everything anymore, including himself. But it was as if he could see rock bottom fast approaching – they were transferring him to the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane. He was going to be incarcerated in his very own mental hospital, under the care of some mediocre interim administrator who would undoubtedly become the permanent administrator as soon as he was convicted or dead.

Frederick Chilton had no illusions about his fate: if Hannibal Lecter did not kill him before the trial, he would go down for the other man’s murders, imprisoned in the asylum for the rest of his life, waiting to slowly fade out.

Pieces of him had already started to go missing anyway.

The sudden clicking startled him, but it took him a few moments to realize it was the sound of a key turning in the door lock. Whatever medication they had him under was good.

For a moment the world tilted out of its hinges when the small woman with the wild red curls entered, her silhouette outlined by the brighter light on the corridor. Frederick stared at her, paralyzed. In another time he had been watching her out of the corner of his eyes, fear on her face and blood on his, the cold neon-light highlighting her cheekbones much like it did now. His heart skipped a beat; for that moment, he was back in that place with Abel Gideon hovering above him, and her by his side. Where was she now?

Freddie Lounds kept standing in the doorway, her hand frozen on the doorknob.

"So the vultures have come at last,” Frederick said, deciding his life was too fucked up for pleasantries and politeness, “By all means, hack away – I’m almost dead anyway.” His voice was bitter, quiet and hoarse from disuse.

She blinked, finally bringing herself to close the door behind her. “Hello, Dr. Chilton,” she greeted him calmly, though she somehow seemed surprised to really find him here.

He cocked his head and frowned. It had been so long since someone had called him “Doctor” he was not sure at first if that was actually what he was; the staff around here was hopeless when it came to remembering titles. He wondered if she had needed his voice to recognize him; after all, she had only seen the bad side of his face when she entered, most of which was concealed by gauze.

Frederick made a point of turning his head slowly, so the asymmetry of his bandaged face would have its greatest impact. Miss Lounds tensed almost imperceptibly, her gaze lingering on the white patch, before she deliberately searched for direct eye contact again.

“So, did you use your fake FBI-ID, or did you have to drug the guard to get in here, Miss Lounds?" he asked when she did not speak. She raised an eyebrow in mock-surprise at the things he would not put past her. It made him smirk involuntarily. “Whatever you did, it wasn’t worth it,” he continued. “You are not going to get an exclusive with the Chesapeake Ripper. Not from me.”

He turned away again to stare in the general direction of the bathroom door, but kept watching her from the corner of his eyes. She looked determined.

“Why not, Dr. Chilton?” she wanted to know and took a couple of slow steps back into his field of vision. The setting sun touched her hair, making it appear surreal shades of bright cinnamon red and blood orange. Frederick took his time to admire the sight – such a welcome distraction from what she was asking about.

“Well, for one,” he replied, staring up at her from under his brows, “I would hate exposing myself like this to you, Miss Lounds.” She smiled at that. Frederick sighed before avoiding her gaze for his next words: “And, secondly, I am not the man you are looking for.”

Freddie Lounds did not seem surprised at all by this revelation, which puzzled Frederick. Alana Bloom had been eager enough to name him the killer. Why not the journalist who could make a fortune with a “Ripper” interview?

“Would you like to tell me that story, Dr. Chilton?” she prompted with a sleazy smile.

Frederick rolled his eyes. “So you can ‘tell the world what really happened’? How well did that work out for your last client?”

He knew he must have hit a nerve with that because her face became hard at the remark. Frederick did not care. He was not even sure the Freddie Lounds he saw before him was real – perhaps she was merely a cruel joke his drugged up mind was playing on him, a reminder of pain and terror and, at the same time, of hope. There was no hope here; hope was not a thing a ruthless tabloid journalist like her could provide anyway. Who would believe her? Who would believe _him_?

Despite his comment, Freddie did not move from her spot. The touch of pain in her expression was already gone, and she seemed once again eager to hear his story.

What harm could telling her do? It had been too long since anybody had been willing to listen to him. He had attempted to tell the doctors and nurses and guards the truth in the first few days after waking up from the coma, but he had not been able to speak much with his wired jaw. His request for pen and paper, made through crude gestures, had been declined because apparently they were worried he would stab someone. The FBI had quickly decided to resume his questioning only after he was released from the hospital and placed in a secure facility. His lawyer had agreed. Frederick was pretty sure he would have to fire the bastard before his case went to trial.

“I am not the Chesapeake Ripper,” he said tonelessly. “I merely got too close to him. I tried my best to not let him see how much I knew, when I had deduced his true identity – but he knew. He knew. The Ripper is the devil, Miss Lounds, and he is wearing his disguise so well that he is fooling even the great FBI. We are all just pawns in his game. He alone plays with us and takes us as he pleases. And I am part of a grand play that’s not yet over – only I’m merely a deception. His opponents are falling for it. It will be much too late when they finally see what has been happening all along. And just look what he did to me when I saw behind his mask! Only, when they recognize him in the end, there will be no need to silence anyone anymore. He will be done hiding. It will be a massacre.”

Freddie Lounds inhaled deeply at this. He waited for her to say something or ask a question, but he was disappointed. Her bright blue eyes just kept piercing whatever was left of his soul and his face, assessing his credibility. Curiously, she was not staring at the gauze, but now held firm eye contact with him. It somehow helped Frederick swallow the thick lump that had been forming in his throat at the memories of blood and mutilated corpses. His breathing was shaky, but he held his composure.

When her silence stretched on for too long, he sighed and shrugged, lowering his gaze. “Of course, you don’t believe me. Nobody does. _He_ is too nice and sophisticated and too gentle to be the Ripper – I will soon be rotting away in a prison cell. It’s much more convenient to say it’s me.”

“Who is the Chesapeake Ripper, Dr. Chilton?” Freddie Lounds asked suddenly, almost cutting him off. Frederick looked up at her in surprise. Her lips were pressed together tightly in anticipation.

He was prepared to violently spit out Hannibal Lecter’s name after a pause as dramatic as possible. But something in the way she asked him made him suspicious.

She was too tense. Her eyes were even wider than usual. Frederick sat up in his chair when realization suddenly dawned upon him.

“…you know! Don’t you?!” he exclaimed, feeling cold shivers up his arms. “What happened, Ms. Lounds?” he urged, and added a little more cautiously, “Why are you really here?”

“Say his name,” she whispered instead.

His mouth still agape, he complied: “It’s Hannibal. Hannibal Lecter.”

Freddie let go of the breath she had been holding. Frederick only now realized how disheveled her hair looked and that there was a bruise forming on her forehead. “What happened to you?” he asked her again.

Instead of giving an immediate reply, she stepped closer and examined the handcuffs binding him to the bed. “Will Graham attacked me today and attempted to slice me into bite-sized pieces,” she explained before fiddling with the edge of her left glove. “I believe he and Hannibal are killing together.” She produced a small silver key from between the seams of the leather.

“Will?!” Frederick repeated, confused.

“Yes,” Freddie confirmed and put the key in the lock of the handcuffs without a moment of hesitation. “Graham has human body parts in his freezer.”

“What – what are you doing?!” Frederick flinched at the slight touch of her glove on his hand as she turned the key and the cuffs opened with a soft click.

She looked at him firmly. “You are in danger, Dr. Chilton. Lecter probably already has Tupperware with your name on it – I cannot allow him to kill you, so you’re coming with me!”

“But…” he tried to protest weakly, “I am in Federal custody! You’re basically breaking me out of prison!”

“Well, good thing you are not actually in prison yet,” she smirked, “or else they wouldn’t use standard-key handcuffs and this would be much more difficult.” He still hesitated, so she cocked her head questioningly. “So, are you coming or not? It probably won’t help your case, but think of what happened to Dr. Gideon – you stand a much better chance at staying alive outside your hospital.”

With a sudden calmness, Frederick slid the handcuffs off his wrist, briefly stroking over the sore red mark left on his skin, and rose from the chair. His hand quickly darted to the backrest to steady himself; he hoped Miss Lounds did not notice how much he was struggling and decide to leave him behind after all. But instead, she reached out and grasped his lower arm, and hastily dragged him towards the door. She opened it silently and stuck her curly head outside a bit before allowing Frederick to follow her. He stumbled along, past the aging uniformed guard who was supposed to keep things like this from happening, now snoring loudly in his chair.

Frederick’s eyes widened. “Oh my God, you did drug him!” he hissed.

“Shush!” she quieted him and swiftly pulled him along with her. He had no idea where they were going, but he wanted to believe Freddie did.

***

The Chesapeake Ripper was discovered missing only half an hour later, when guards arrived intending to transport him to the BSHCI. A thorough search of the hospital and the immediate perimeter revealed nothing except that he was gone, and the number of casualties halted at one. The FBI was called subsequently, and for the second time that day Jack Crawford found himself in a neon-lit hospital hallway.

The crime scene was irritatingly normal. It had not been preserved because medics had unsuccessfully attempted to revive the victim and had altered his position. Jack took in the details and tried to find something that made the scene special, but there was nothing: a plastic chair next to the open door; a colorful thermos flask underneath it, still half full of coffee with milk; a lifeless body lying flat on the ground.

“The guard was dead when they got here,” Zeller announced unceremoniously and put down his camera after one last picture of the corpse. “No visible sign of trauma. The bastard probably smothered him.”

“Chilton must have been in a rush,” Price chirped in, “otherwise this would have looked a lot more dramatic. With intestines for handcuffs or something.” Zeller and Crawford gave him a blank stare. “What?!” Price asked.

“Of course he was in a hurry! They were preparing his transfer!” Zeller shook his head as if that was the clearest thing in the universe.

“But he was already gone when they came to get him,” Crawford said thoughtfully. “Why now? He could have killed the guard any other day and escaped.”

“Maybe that’s it,” a voice from behind them suggested. “He wants to show you that he could have done it all this time, and that he is still toying with you.” Crawford, Zeller and Price turned around to find Will Graham pinching the bridge of his nose.

Zeller cocked his head. “You okay?”

Will sniffed and rubbed his slightly swollen red eyes and nose. “Probably a bit of the flu, nothing to worry about. I’ve already taken something.” He exhaled noisily, frowning at the sight of the dead man. “I don’t really know why you called me, Jack. This doesn’t look like anything you need me for. This doesn’t even look like the Ripper.”

“This is not as weird as you’re used to, Will, true,” Crawford agreed, “but it was him.” He paused briefly. “Have you heard from Dr. Lecter?”

Will gave a short nod; his hand twitched around the edge of his jacket. “Hannibal still doesn’t want anything to do with the Ripper. He’s too fazed by how often he had him over for dinner.” His frown deepened when he looked inside the hospital room. “Maybe the banality of the crime is what makes it so extraordinary…”

Crawford did not follow him inside and instead gave Will time to work. He threw a brief glimpse inside the room and was actually surprised by just how generic and blank it was.

Zeller and Price continued to take pictures of the scene and potential evidence. After a few minutes of calmly standing in the hospital room, Will suddenly asked, “How did he unlock the door?”

“We think he had a key,” Crawford replied, “for the handcuffs too. We’re working on figuring out where he got it from.”

Will pursed his lips in surprise. “Huh.”

“What?” Crawford asked, uneasiness seeping into his voice.

Will let his eyes wander around the room one more time, almost as if hoping he was wrong. “I – he – he has a friend. He has a friend, Jack.”

Price and Zeller stopped what they were doing and stared at Will in incredulous silence, while the look on Jack’s face was clearly that of a man who was about to spontaneously develop an ulcer.

“What’s more astonishing: that the Ripper has a friend, or that Dr. Chilton has a friend?” Zeller finally asked Price with a half-smirking grimace.

“A friend? Or a student?” Crawford wanted to know.

Will’s eyes rested on the unlocked handcuffs dangling from the side of the bed. “I don’t know. But somebody helped him.”

***

Freddie generally thought of herself as a good driver: she could parallel-park like a champion, could drive stick-shift, and could keep her cool during rush hour. However, none of this changed the fact that she absolutely despised driving in the dark. Though it was inevitable most times, she usually at least tried to leave early enough to get home or to a motel room before nightfall, and would even sleep in her car on some occasions.

She snuggled her chin a little deeper into the thick shawl she had slung around her neck, but it barely did anything to keep her skin from freezing in the cold wind. At least the car had still been there. Fine, the GPS was missing, but Freddie could not care less. She kept both hands on the wheel and her eyes fixed on the road in the headlights. In the corner of her eyes she could see Chilton was shivering hard despite the blanket slung around his shoulders. Freddie gave a small sigh. Sleeping in the car was definitely not an option this time.

They were half-way to Baltimore when she decided to stop at a 7-Eleven. Freddie threw a somewhat indecisive look at her companion; she did not like leaving him sitting in the car out in the open like this, but what was she going to do? She reached over to pull the blanket up around his neck and cover his bandaged cheek. Chilton flinched at her touch but said nothing. He had hardly said a word since getting into the car. “I’ll be right back,” Freddie assured him, “Do you want something?”

He looked at her blankly for a second. “Water.” He cleared his throat and repeated, “Water, please. And, uhm…” He motioned at his face and body as if not sure where to start, but Freddie nodded understandingly. “Got it,” she said and locked him in the car despite the missing window.

Freddie bought two bottles of water, bread, chocolate, two toothbrushes for the price of one and other general toilet articles, and also stocked up on bandages. She would have preferred to pay cash, but her wallet had been in her handbag, and her handbag was still in a ratty murder-barn in Wolf Trap, Virginia, so she had to resort to her emergency credit card, hidden away inside her boot.

Walking back to the car, she recapitulated: she had lost her pepper spray; she had lost her gun, Lois; she had, however, acquired one drugged-up, heavily traumatized, freezing mess of a psychiatrist framed for multiple murders, who flinched again when she opened the door and handed him his water. Freddie did not start the engine immediately, but watched Chilton drink thirstily. He looked terrible, and that meant something coming from the person who had seen him holding his innards: his skin was grayish pale; black circles lined his eyes (not just dark, but actual black), and fading yellow-green bruises peeked out under the bandage on his left cheek. His left eyeball was still slightly pink from blood vessels that had burst a while ago. He had lost weight (it did not suit him). His hair was a greasy mess, in desperate need of washing and combing, and the wild, scruffy beard covering half his face made it clear he had not shaved in weeks. Curiously, what irked Freddie the most were his clothes: she was having a hard time wrapping her head around the idea of Dr. Chilton in anything other than double-breasted suits or pretentious blazers, let alone the cheap grey hospital-issued sweatpants-and-pullover-combo he was wearing at this moment.

Chilton noticed that Freddie was watching him and quickly looked away, his hand reaching up to scratch the skin on the edge of his bandage. Freddie had not realized that she had been staring at the gauze on his face again. To claim she was not at all curious about the injury would be a lie, but so would be saying she was not a little bit apprehensive at the same time. Mutilated dead bodies were one thing, but sustaining scars was entirely different; scars had an impact on a person and would affect them for the rest of their life. She thought of her own wound, aching every time she turned too much, and wondered how it would look once healed. Then the image of a scarf wrapped around a pale neck came to her mind and Freddie promptly started the engine and turned on the radio.

They drove on towards Baltimore in silence while snacking on the bread and chocolate, until Freddie found a radio station she liked and started humming along to random pop songs. She noticed Chilton give her a little frown from the side and smirked faintly. Humming along to songs was a good way to stay sharp while driving, she found, and now that the adrenaline from their daring escape was wearing off, she gladly resorted to her habit.

“Where are you taking me?” Chilton mustered up the courage to ask once they reached the city limits. Freddie picked up on the anxiety in his voice and realized that they were dangerously close to both the BSHCI and Dr. Lecter’s home; it was all just a question of which turns to take. She turned to her companion and gave him a reassuring smile.

“There’s a little apartment that I use when I’m in town. We can stay there for the night and decide what further to do.”

He looked at her, a taste more smug than she had expected. “Is it rented in your name? The Bureau will come looking there first once they discover the identity of my ‘mysterious benefactor’. That is you,” he added with a little nod that made her smirk. His voice was still a little shaky, but he did his best to cover it up.

“Who says they will? They have been completely incompetent so far,” Freddie countered.

Chilton frowned, considering her argument for a moment. Then he asked, “How big are our chances of them _not_ placing you at the scene?”

Freddie thought of Jack Crawford accusing her of deceit in the examination room. Of the doctor who had thought it plausible, and of the nurse who would be able to testify that Freddie had been suspiciously quiet while she had prescribed the antibiotics and painkillers. “Too small,” she replied grudgingly to Chilton’s question, “you’re right.”

So they pulled into the parking lot of the first shabby little motel they found. Chilton waited in the car with the blanket pulled up to his eyes, while Freddie got them a room, reluctantly handing over her credit card once more. The night was cold and she almost envied Chilton a little for the blanket; her nose was numb and cold as ice from the long drive with the broken window. The girl at registration was bored out of her mind and did not show much interest in Freddie when she handed her the room key, all too eager to get back to her comic book. Freddie nervously eyed the TV running mute in the corner, but some soap opera was all that was on.

She parked the car both close to their room and too far away to spot it from the street, not just in case the FBI came looking for them, but also because she had nothing to barricade the driver’s side window with. But if the car was still going to get stolen tonight she wanted to lose as little as possible, and so she gathered up the few things she had and took them to the room with her. Chilton was not carrying anything except for the blanket he was still wearing like a cape. Freddie did not call him out on it – he looked frail and was clutching the banisters tightly on their way up to the second floor.

Upon unlocking the door and switching on the light, Freddie gave a startled “Huh,” cocking her head at the single queen-size bed. She turned to Chilton, who was leaning heavily against the door frame. “It should be big enough for both of us, but please get your own blankets.” He stared at her wide eyed, and she was not sure if he was breathing. “ _I_ am okay with it,” she said provocatively. Chilton swallowed and licked his lips, his face flushed. Freddie turned around, smirking a little. She somehow enjoyed messing with the poor doctor.

“I think you know better than to go outside,” Freddie went on and closed the door behind them when it became clear Chilton would not do it, “but I’d stay away from the window too, if I were you.” She allowed herself to take a deep breath. It was the first time she unwound a little since she had broken into Will Graham’s barn. Only now was she beginning to realize just how much her body was aching. She needed a hot shower to relax her muscles, and a good few hours of sleep before she could move forward with her plan. Whatever that plan would turn out to be. She had a general idea, but the details still needed to be developed further.

Frederick Chilton was possibly the most crucial witness to Hannibal’s and Will’s crimes – finding him had definitely been an unexpected break. Or so she hoped. At the moment he appeared too tired and shaken to even stand up straight; his mood was unstable; he had sunken into the ratty armchair, one of the few extra pieces of furniture in the room, and was absentmindedly staring at his right wrist, a faint red mark still reminiscent of the handcuffs.

“I got first dibs on the bathroom,” she said casually, taking what toilet articles she needed from the plastic bag. Chilton nodded vaguely, but did not look up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to stalksandmonocles for beta'ing :)
> 
> Chapter title from the song Btsk by MS MR.
> 
> I'm very sorry, but the next chapter could take a while because I've got a thesis to finish, but I promise there is more to come! If everything goes as planned, I'm aiming for ~15 chapters.
> 
> Thanks a lot to everyone who commented and left kudos on Chapter 1! I'm glad you like it so far! :)


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